


Observations

by Davechicken



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 11:20:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9488789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: Phasma likes to watch.





	

Sometimes she manages to sneak away from her duties, although ‘sneak’ is probably the wrong word. A training session might end early because there’s been an injury close to the end, and everyone needs to go back to their bunks, or cool down before the next session. A meal finishes early. A delay in the shuttle maintenance causes things to overlap or need cancelling. Nothing is ever perfect, but those moments give her more freedom, now. 

Before… they’d been an annoyance. A waste of time in which she could be efficient, but now wasn’t. A dead space, a gap, an emptiness.

Now, she can sneak into the room above the dojo when she knows he’ll be inside. She has permission to enter, now, and only Kylo and his Knights know she sometimes watches. They’re safe, Kylo insists. They wouldn’t dream of breaking his confidence, and if he trusts them then so does she.

Here, behind closed doors, they train with freedom. Sometimes they’re in full robes and masks, and sometimes they’re not. She was surprised to see the Knights were of various ages (some older than Kylo, some much younger), and of both genders. Their clothing is even less defined than a stormtrooper’s armour, and she’s glad to know that women have equal footing, here.

Glad, but unsurprised. She knows not everyone likes following her command, or respects her because of her gender, but Kylo has never once made her feel like it makes her any less. He respects her for her skills and her actions, and things within her control. 

Right now, he and the two he trains with (siblings, she thinks, a man and a woman) are stripped down to bare feet, tight pants and sleeveless vests. She glances at them, but it’s her lover who holds her attention for longest.

His hair is clasped out of the way, and he’s training with his saber this time. It’s sometimes bare-hand fighting, sometimes staves, sometimes free-form where they literally run around the room hurling anything they can with the Force or their hands. She doesn’t begin to understand the rules of their sparring, she just admires the physicality of it. The elegant rage and danger, and the way her lover always emerges somehow only _slightly_ on top. She thinks he lets them get close enough to encourage them, actually. It’s what she would do: win just enough to prove your dominance, but give them enough of a chance, enough of an almost-victory to keep their teeth sharp and their ambition keen.

Kylo’s hands pass the hilt back and forth, describing loose and fluid arcs of death through the air. He blocks and parries their thrusts, writing his ownership of the room as his foot or an outstretched hand sends the other flying. He slams off one blade to hit the other’s, and his feet carry him through the pair of them like he’s dancing to some music that only he can hear.

He’s beautiful. Maker, but he’s beautiful. She catches mere glimpses of his face: studious in his control, fierce in his purpose. He always seems more focused when he’s fighting, like the excess of emotion or thought is either drowned out, or spit out by his actions. 

Flash, clash, twist, turn.

His shoulders are twin blades of death that dole out his judgement against his trainees. She wants to slide her thumbs or tongue in the void they make and swallow, to trap herself in his form. His arms are bundled balls of power that could choke her out with a hug, and his thighs are made to drive her to the brink of ecstasy and keep her there. She watches as he bends in ways only a fighter or a dancer can, the flat plane of his stomach and the hint of those narrow hips. His chest that is so soft to lie on, so hard under her fingernails. The beating of his heart she can hear from here, above the grunts, and the poke of his nipples that she needs to latch onto.

Oh, but he’s a sculpted beauty. The scars that silver his skin are like fine jewellery, the lines between muscle and bone are the chisel-marks of battle. She feels her mouth go dry as he screams them back with a fling of his arm, and knows a steady, building knot in her belly. 

When he sends them out, she’ll have time to slip inside. Slip inside and lick the sweat from his body, and put some fresh heat on his skin. It’s worth the wait.


End file.
